


Surrender

by Rinari7



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Also I Apparently Still Have No Idea How University Works, Alternate Universe - Student/Teacher, And Couldn't Be Arsed To Research It For Smutfic, And Rose Tyler Is Only Sort Of Rose Tyler, Angst, Because That's Apparently What I Write Now, Brief Mention Of Past Underage Sex (Losing Virginity), But I Still Think It's Sort Of Good?, Especially In The US, F/M, More Like Doctoral Candidate/Professor But I Think That Still Counts, Or Tell Me And I May Or May Not Edit It, Out of Character, Porn with Feelings, Power Dynamics, Rose Tyler Is American, Sexual Content, So AU I Was Almost Tempted To Put This As A Crossover Between Fanfiction And Original Work, So Please Overlook Any Inaccuracies, Somewhat, Teacher-Student Relationship, The Doctor Is Some Kind Of Mix Of Nine And Ten, very very AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2019-01-09 00:33:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12265257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rinari7/pseuds/Rinari7
Summary: As he entered her office looking practically delectable in his leather jacket, Professor Tyler told herself it wouldn't be one ofthosetimes. Except somehow it always was.





	Surrender

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chiaroscuroverse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chiaroscuroverse/gifts).



> I don't know what this is. It's sort of fanfic and sort of not; it makes references to the show on a metatextual level but only in passing; it was inspired by the show and its characters but the characters are hardly the ones you know well. It is, perhaps, Rose and The Doctor in a very different universe, if so very many things had happened differently, if they were born as different people.  
> It's not chiaroscuroverse's fault I wrote this, but she very kindly looked over this for me and encouraged me to post it, so thank you. This one (among others) is yours.

A single, short rap against her door made Professor Tyler look up from her screen. “It's unlocked,” she called, though she only had to raise her voice slightly for it to cross her tiny office and be heard outside of the paper-thin walls.

Carefully, the door was eased open, by the hand of someone who knew how to open it just so, so it wouldn't hit the coat rack behind it.  A fragile sort of hope rose, one she tried to quash with common sense, but it bloomed into something resembling anticipation as her visitor backed the door shut behind him. John Smith, doctor of astrophysics and one of her current candidates for a doctorate in history, with his chiseled features — handsome, she thought, though on another man they might have looked out of place, bordering on grotesque — and his trademark leather jacket, a frequent visitor to her office as of late — and the person she'd been hoping to see, even if she'd never have admitted it to herself.

The quiet  _ snick _ of the lock seemed too loud as their gazes stumbled into each other, and stayed there. Already, she found her thighs clenching together reflexively, her tongue darting out to wet her lips, his eyes darkening as he followed the movement. But no, today wouldn't be one of  _ those _ times, she told herself, not as firmly as she would have hoped. Finally, when she thought she had herself under control again, she rose, clearing her throat, and pointed to the folder he carried. “Doctor Smith. Is that for me?”

“Yeah.” He held it out towards her, like a shield, like a gauntlet. The paper crinkled under her fingers as she took it, paging through it. It was a good deal thicker than when she had last seen it, and Rose smiled reflexively, already looking forward to reading it. He seemed capable of bringing even the seemingly dryest topic to life, seeking out the courage and humanity among dates and battles and movements, digging up records nearly forgotten, writing as if he’d spoken to the people himself, with attention to detail and the intricate ways people's timelines twisted around one another to weave the fabric of the past. “We'll likely have to work on your concision again.” She tapped on what was practically a volume.

He nodded. “I revised it and added in some more bits about the effects on the French Revolution. I tried to keep it short.” The last sentence was almost plaintive.

She couldn't quite fight back a laugh. “And this is the final final draft? You're absolutely sure there's nothing more you want to add? No further mention of the French-Indian war, no more minute details on the taxation of tea…?”

He grinned at her teasing. “Afraid I can't make any promises, professor. It's all absolutely fascinating.”

“I know.” She grinned back. He was truly a joy to have studying under her. Like a breath of fresh air amongst her 101s full of bored freshmen ticking off their general education requirement, he reminded her why she loved her field, why she loved her job. “But you'll eventually have to stop fiddling with it if you want to graduate.”

The moment the careless words were out, her stomach dropped, and she did her best to conceal the dull ache in her chest that appeared whenever she was reminded of his impending departure. He blinked, swallowing, his voice gruff when he spoke again. “Of course.”

“You wanted to travel, remember?” Gently, she tried to push him away, even as she took half a step towards him. It was for her own sake, if she was completely honest. “See history in the making, instead of just studying it after the fact.” The way his eyes had lit up as he'd confessed that dream to her, one late night in her office after Chinese takeout and half a bottle of vodka… She couldn't help but smile at the memory, but his eyes held none of that light now as he looked at her, and swallowed.

“Yeah.” The word rang hollow, and so a moment later he added more, somehow no less empty. “I've got the van already, sturdy little thing, bigger on the inside. And the money saved up.”

Not that he needed it: he came from an old family in England, maybe the oldest, and had access to the old money that came with it. That was something else he'd confessed, under the influence of that second half of the vodka bottle, hating the elitism and pressures that came with that legacy, all the reasons he'd left for America. She had equally confided in him, about life growing up in the trailer park: about her dad, dead when she was ten, about her mom, practically catatonic in front of the television to forget and then charging men by the hour to make ends meet, about losing her virginity at fifteen to Jimmy Stone in the back seat of his beat-up Ford before he drove off with what little she'd managed to save so far, about her neighbor Mickey, who she thought was her friend until she didn't want to fuck him any more. And all the while John — Doctor Smith — had murmured words of sympathy and comfort and amazement at her strength in her ear, as he combed his fingers far too reverently through her hair.

She nodded, to shake off that memory, too. “That's good. Sounds like you're all set.”

“Yeah, I suppose I am.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets, then took them out again, his lashes fluttering as his gaze stuttered along the curve of her hips. She couldn’t help the shaky exhale that escaped her at that, and his eyes snapped back to hers, dark and wanting, and she nearly shuddered from the desire there alone. “Have you got some time, professor?”

“Yes.” She was nodding before she even mentally drew up her schedule for the rest of the afternoon, and she only just had time to reassure herself she did indeed have no upcoming appointments before he was tangling his fingers in her hair, pressing his lips to her like a man starved. With a small, muffled groan of pleasure, she wrapped her arms around him, her fingers curling as she molded herself to him, his erection already half-hard against her stomach. So much for it not being one of those times.

He drew back, finally, for air, sweeping one hand down to the small of her back, using the other to trace her neckline and then down along her side, to softly cup one of her breasts.

“We really shouldn't be doing this,” she whispered against his lips as her fingers played along the waistband of his jeans. It was a token protest, by now, but one she still felt obligated to make.

He swallowed, his exhale hot and heavy on her skin, the deep gravel in his rough English accent making her want to purr with every word he spoke. “Do you want to stop?” His assigned line, though she had no doubt at all that he would, if she wanted to. 

But — “No.” Fierce, without thinking — something about him made thought seem irrelevant, like how his ears were too big for his face and how he could be downright rude sometimes and how  _ he was her goddamn student _ —

“Good,” he breathed, and then his lips were on hers again, opening, wanting, and his hands were on her ass, and she arched into him with a moan.

Sliding her tongue along his, she curled one hand possessively around the back of his neck, hastily trying to undo his belt buckle with the other, but he was slipping his hands from her buttocks down between her thighs, pulling her to him hard, and her hand was trapped.

“Professor Tyler,” he gasped, in between kisses, “Am I dreaming all of this up, or have you not got any knickers on at all?”

Her cheeks would have burned, if they hadn't already been flushed. She laid a few fingers over his now-prominent erection, and he groaned. The sound was heady. “Thong,” she mumbled, a little sheepishly. It was a far cry from her usual cotton panties and she'd be lying if she said she hadn't put them on this morning thinking of him.

He broke from her lips to nip at her neck, his teeth and tongue tracing patterns she knew she'd have to apply some concealer over in the staff bathroom later, but for now — he bit down, sucking softly, and she moaned, more loudly than was perhaps entirely safe here in her office.

“Yes,” he murmured almost reverently against her skin, inserting his thigh between her legs, sparing one hand from her ass only long enough to hike her skirt up. “Like that, professor. I want to hear you.”

They had agreed that he wouldn't call her Rose, and she wouldn't call him John, not even at times like this. There was too much of a chance they'd slip up otherwise. Now, the title only heightened the sense of the forbidden, sweetened the fruit, and she shuddered.

He didn’t miss it. He rarely missed anything. “Like that, do you, professor?” He pressed his thigh into her again, and she curled her fingers around him through his jeans in retaliation, even as another shudder ran through her, and she set one hand on the desk behind her for a moment to steady herself.

“You think you're so impressive.”

“I am so impressive.” From anyone else it would have been cocky, but from her exchange student it was simply a statement of fact that came out with a touch of a growl, a promise to prove to her in deliberate, intimate detail.

Setting one hand over her mouth to muffle any noises, still holding her pressed against his thigh with the other, he bit down again. She jerked, pressing her clit against the tense muscle of his leg, and moaned again, long and loud. Slowly, he dragged his teeth away from her shoulder, letting her skin slip centimeter by centimeter from the bite, and she found her pants becoming ragged, as she held to the back of his neck like an anchor and scrabbled ineffectually at his belt buckle.

Desperate to drive him as mad as he was driving her, she palmed his erection through his jeans, softly stroking him, and ran her tongue along the shell of his ear. “Professor —” Reaching down between them to grasp her wrist, to still it, he set the bridge of his nose to her cheekbone, his breath tickling her neck, which suddenly felt very bereft of his lips. “Don't. Else I'm going to come in my pants.”

Elation shot through her, at that, and so with only a little reluctance she shifted her hand to grope at his ass, sliding her last two fingers along the groove between buttock and thigh. He tensed, and his next words came out a groan. “That's not much better.”

With the hand at the back of his head, she guided his mouth to her neck. He took the cue, nipping and kissing and sucking, well-practiced from the months he'd had to learn what she liked. Lolling her head back — he'd almost managed to drive her intended next words from her mind entirely — she murmured, “I'll go easy on you, if you promise to fuck me today.”

His cock was gorgeous, thick and curved just right, and she relished those moments when he filled her, moments much too short and few and far between. It was far easier to quickly detangle themselves from oral sex, and if her colleagues had noticed she'd begun to almost exclusively wear skirts, they hadn't commented on it.

He laved a kiss just under her ear. “Your wish is my command. But be careful what you wish for. I've got a math tutorial to give in half an hour.”

It was still more than enough time for them, and she grinned. “Shouldn't you get to work, then?”

“You’ve got a mouth on you.” He backed her up against the desk properly now, his gaze dark and hungry. Her tongue darted out over her lower lip.

“And you love it.” It didn't come out quite as teasing as she meant it to, somehow more meaning lurking behind the words than the filthy innuendo that was all she'd intended them to have.

“I do.” He searched her expression, for a split second, and her heart crept into her throat running from something she couldn't name. Then he kissed her, slipping his tongue into her mouth, and the moment was gone; this was just the usual clandestine arrangement-that-wasn’t-quite-an-arrangement between Professor Tyler and Doctor Smith again.

She sat up on the desk, sliding stacks of papers and her keyboard to the side. He reached around her to move her mouse, too, and she made room for him between her legs, leaning back on her elbows.

He drew her legs up to cross in the small of his back, his gaze roaming her body as his hands slid back up to her hips under her skirt. “How did I not get to unbuttoning that blouse of yours before?”

She didn't answer, instead only toying with the the lapel, running her tongue along the edge of her smile in that way she knew drove him mad. It worked this time, too, as he ground slowly into her, watching as she tucked her tongue into the corner of her mouth. “Open it. Your bra, too.”

It was rare for him to give outright commands of any sort, but when he did… Rose shuddered, the words falling nearly automatically from her lips, teasing, heated, “Yes, sir.”

It wouldn’t have been the first time for them to engage in a bit of ad-hoc roleplay — one of the more memorable instances an entirely ridiculous scenario involving corsets and the console of a time machine — but now he stilled, staring down at her as if thunderstruck. “You don't have to call me sir, professor,” he said, low, holding her gaze. “Just John.”

Panic fluttered up inside her chest, shock hitting her like a block of concrete. She unhooked her legs from around him, pushing herself up. He stepped back, almost instinctively, rubbing at the back of his neck and a pained grimace on his lips. Still, his gaze hadn't left hers, and she couldn't tear hers away. This must be how deer felt under headlights.

“I'm sorry if I've ruined this. I know you said — but I can't — I want you to come with me.” He stumbled over the words as they rushed as out, as if he were afraid to stop. “I keep thinking about being out there, on the road, and it used to seem so exciting. But now it just seems lonely. My mate Donna wanted to come, and I love her company — but I want you. I know —” He inhaled sharply, hunching his shoulders. “I know what your answer is going to be, but I couldn't stand not to have asked. Just one trip, even, twelve hours, it'll be like you've never been gone. Rose —” And it was the first time her name had ever rolled from his lips, the first time it had ever fallen from anyone’s lips like that, and something inside her melted and shattered. “What do you say?”

Faced with that expression of hope-tinged misery, faced with her own affection for this man, there was only one thing she could say. So she exhaled, slowly, and nodded her surrender. “ All right. Twelve hours.”

He simply stared, for a long moment, as her heart thudded against her ribs, and then a slow, smile lit his entire face with pure joy. Her stomach flipped at the sight, and she fell a little further down the path she now admitted she had started down a long time ago.

“Fantastic.” He closed the distance between them again, kissing her deeply, wrapping his arms around her as if he never wanted to let her go. “Now,” and he dropped another kiss to her lips, “All I have to do is convince you to stay with me.”

“Doctor —” She closed her eyes, unconsciously chasing his lips as he lifted them from hers. “I'm still going to call you Doctor, by the way.”

“I don't mind. If I can call you Rose. It's a beautiful name, and I want to use it.” He brushed his lips to her forehead, his hands skimming over her back to pull her to him again.

“If you like.” She took a deep breath. Desperately needing the semblance of normalcy right now, needing the distraction from the enormity of what she’d just agreed to — because she had the sense twelve hours could turn into twelve months, or even years, with him — her next words were more pleading than she might have liked. “Weren't we in the middle of something?”

He teased his fingers along the edge of her skirt, his gaze darkening once again, as he leaned down to graze his teeth over her earlobe. “We were.”


End file.
